Second Time Around: Trick For Your Treats
by SillyDragon09
Summary: Halloween 1997.Sequel to School Hard & Kashmir.Story 3 in the series!
1. Stuck

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 1: Stuck**

**Angel:** Almost there. Just grab hold, and PUUUSSSHHHH! Ughn!

**Spike:** OH YEAH! Uhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhh! RAAAR!

**Angel:** Ah! That's it! That's it! Almost there!

**Spike:** Ooohhh, Peaches! That's it You Big Bad – Hey! Ow! What was that for?

**Angel: **Fuck you!

**Spike:** Fuck you too!

"Will you stop with the fucking sound effects already?" Angel exploded, swinging another wild punch at Spike who this time managed to evade him.

"Dunno, Peaches, I'm sorta havin' fun with the 'fucking' sound effects," Spike replied with a snarky smirk.

Love. Peaches. Baby. Angel finds Spike's use of pet names nearly as disturbing as the sweaty sex sounds coming from the blonde's versatile mouth.

Angel deliberately closed his eyes and sucked down several deep breaths, striving for calm. He doesn't know what's worse. The mockery or…the mockery. It never stops. It's gotten so that Angel hears Spike's grating voice in his dreams. The insults are varied and colorful and unending. Wanker. Git. Idiot. Queen Drama. Hair Do. Miserable bastard. Neanderthal browed scary-gel-haired poofter. (And the list goes on.)

Then, occasionally, Spike is nice to him, and _that_ drives Angel even more batty.

"You're sick," Angel spat, doing some grunting himself as he shoved at the metal shelves that pinned both vampires to the factory floor. The damn thing must weigh two thousand pounds, and without Spike's active cooperation, moving it is a stretch even for Angel's formidable strength.

"N' twisted," replied Spike who was enjoying their predicament far too much for Angel's comfort. "It's your fault we're in this mess."

And _that_ is Insane Spike Logic.

"Just push!" Angel snapped. Fuming. _His fault! _No one has ever been guiltier than Spike!

"Oh, Angel, you sweet talker, you! Just move your sweet arse a little closer and I'll push for all I'm worth!"

"I'm gonna kill you!" Angel shouted, going crazy for a second with flailing limbs to express his rage. He redoubled his efforts, pouring all of his pent up frustration into the effort of getting free just so that he can strangle Spike until his blue eyes bugger out of his skull.

_Spike's maniacal laughter rings in his ears._

End Part 1.


	2. It Happened Like This

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 2: It happened like this**

**Angel: **_Spike!_

**Spike: **_Hey there, Peaches! Home early, aintcha? What'sa matter? Slayer kick ya outta bed before the sheets dried?_

**Angel: **_Shut Up! You ass--_

**Spike: **_Tisk tisk! Watch yer--_

**Angel: **_You imbecilic! Of all the stupid, thoughtless things you've ever done!_

**Spike: **_Language Love!_

**Angel: **_This just takes the cake!_

**Spike: **_What'd I do anyway?_

**Angel: **_ARRRRRRRR!_

Hands extended, Angel flew through the air toward Spike, achieving that surreal vampire suspension. Angel reached his target and wrapped his hands firmly around Spike's throat, wrenching the younger vampire from the black leather armchairThe chair tilted, dumping the pair of vampires to the floor, where they rocked and rolled in a tangle of limbs.

"So you got into a fight with Buffy, and what? Developed terminal stupidity and forgot to tell me?" Angel demanded, loosening one hand from Spike's throat in order to punch him in the face. "Oh, that's right! You're an idiot with a sub-zero IQ already! You must be dumping the bleach directly into your holes!"

Spike grabbed hold of Angel's hands and pried them free enough so that he could respond. "Don't go projecting your own inadequacies onto me, micro-cock!"

Teeth gnashing, temples throbbing, Angel literally seethed. There was absolutely **nothing** inadequate about the size of his penis! As Spike damn well knew – presuming… presuming… **Do not go there.**

The outraged, aborted thought inspired Angel to give his boy a vigorous shaking of the nature that one should never give a baby due to retinal detachment and infant death. Oh, but OH, if Angel should only be so lucky!

Spike didn't croak; he cackled. "You're teeny little thing's probably what the slayer's mad 'bout. You know how passive aggressive birds get when they're diss-"

Angel's fist ended that unsavory speculation, connecting with Spike's jaw with a painful crack. Angel seized hold of his boy's throat again, intent upon choking the blonde into submission. Spike, in turn, made pleasing gagging sounds, and then grabbed hold of Angel's forearm and squeezed until he forced the tendons to release, freeing his throat.

"Where's a stake?" Angel demanded, entirely serious. If he'd had one in hand right that very second, he'd have used it, and the true intention must've showed on his face.

"Hey! I didn't go picking the fight, alright? Slayer attacked me!" Spike protested, suddenly seeming to arrive at a clear understanding of just how upset Angel is, because the mockery has stopped.

The mockery. Not the violence.

"It's wasn't my fault!" Spike landed a punch to Angel's face, and the pair of male vampires locked together, jockeying for advantage.

Spike would. Make excuses. But that wasn't the real issue.

"Why the hell didn't you warn me?" Angel demanded. "You told her you know me, and then didn't see fit to pass that along? I got blind-sided Spike! Walked right into it!"

"Yeah, so did I," Spike replied with a grin, rubbing his jaw. "Slayer packs one helluva punch."

Spike always talks about Buffy with such genuine affection and familiarity that it sets Angel's teeth on edge. _Damn it, Buffy is his honey-bun._ Quite unintentionally, Spike has let on that there was more between him and alterna-world Buffy than has ever been directly alluded to, and just the thought pisses Angel off to no end.

Angel roared his outrage, and dove at Spike with both fists swinging, venting his frustration upon the Brit. Spike responded in kind, kicking and punching, never hesitating to give as good as he got.

_What is said. What isn't said._ _Around the factory, there is a pandemic truth: a future known to one._

More than a casual wrestling match ensued. Angel and Spike both approached conflict with equal fervor and gusto. Fighting is their favorite recreational activity. Angel, being larger and older, possessed the obvious advantage. However, future-alterna Spike is one tough little bugger. Every time he got put down, Spike would pop right up for more. Glutton for punishment.

They wrestled and tumbled across the factory floor, two lions at play, eyes occasionally shimmering gold. The rise of bumpies. The flash of fangs. Angel is an irascible battle scarred lion king who has successfully defended his pride and his territory from interlopers time and again. Spike is his impudent cub.

"Youshould'vewarnedme," Angel grated out scrambling on all fours in order to keep up with Spike who is on his back in retreat, pushing along with his legs. Angel managed to land a solid punch to the solar plexus that caused Spike to snarl in pain and anger.

"Not my fault that you can't be honest with your sixteen-year-old pubescent girlfriend!" Spike hissed, coming round at Angel with a punch to the throat that caused the Irish vampire to momentarily lose his ability to speak. "I can't really see the appeal of a teeny-bopper who's barely gotten past the acne and training bras, you sick pervert. But hey, whatever gets your rocks off. Me, I like older women myself. Ones where statutory rape isn't an issue."

**Zing.**

The worst of it is that it is true. 'Sick pervert' is a very apt description for a two-hundred-year old man who is dating a teenage girl. It is sick, and perverted, and Angel knows it.

But Angel can't help it. He _loves_ Buffy. So much that it hurts.

Worse, it isn't entirely true, because Angel isn't getting any. He wishes that he were, because he might as well be reaping the benefits if he's gonna be called the dirty names.

But Buffy is a virgin. There are some hot-n-heavy makeout sessions with plenty of tongue and even some groping, but the only action that Little Angel is seeing these days is hand-n'-shower. Angel is twerked so high that he's ready to explode, and hitting Spike is about his only outlet.

The pair of wrestling vampires collided with the base of a shelving unit, slamming into it so hard that the structure creaked and groaned. Two-thousand pounds of welded metal designed to support manufacturing processes once went on in the factory, screeching in protest under their combined assault. Intuiting the danger, they changed directions and rolled away.

"Cept, the slayer isn't putting out, is she?" Spike continued with vile accuracy, sneering so that his lower lip curled toward Angel's eye, their proximity is so close. Spike is a hyena, mocking the lion king.

"Buffy is a virgin," Angel spat, so consumed with emotion that he failed to register the relief in Spike's eyes, to realize that he'd been baited into revealing the truth of his intimacy with the slayer.

"Just checkin'," Spike said almost too softly to be heard. "Your post-it note soul."

"What?" Angel demanded, scowling.

Spike recovered with a click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I said, can't believe you haven't nailed her yet. What's wrong, Angelus, lost yer touch?"

_That name. _Combined with the untarnished truth spewing from Spike's mouth, made Angel all that much more furious. The Irish vampire hauled off and hit Spike again, attempting to feed the smaller vampire his fist. They set to tumbling across the floor again, and finally hit a wall.

Angel grabbed hold of Spike's muscular body, pinning the Brit to the factory floor with his greater bulk, their bodies cleaving together. Angel literally rode Spike who tried to buck him off. They grappled for dominance, back-to-chest, ass-to-crotch, both of them deliberately ignoring their raging hardons. Panting, Angel got Spike in a neck lock, thinking that he'd _finally _won, rubbing his erection appreciatively against that tight rear. _God, he just loves sexy little blondes. _

An alarm went off in the back of Angel's skull, a shrieking alert warning him of just how close he is to the edge. Literally straddling a perpice of lust that leads in a direction where **he does not wish to go.**

When Spike's lithe body twisted and squirmed out of his arms, Angel let him go, acknowledging that the fight was over.

"Was it good for you?" Spike teased with a pouty lower lip and hooded bedroom eyes. Laughing. Because he knows exactly what almost happened.

Angel's fist lashed out for one final punch and slammed into the pavement where Spike's laughing face had been. However, the rascal had ducked and rolled away. Grinning, Spike leveraged his head with one elbow, rolling onto his side.

They lay sweaty and gasping, side-by-side on the factory floor. Both of their bodies bore bruises and broken bones. Movement hurt, and it was easier to just remain prone while vampire regeneration kicked in. Angel cushioned his head with his bicep and stared at the chiseled perfection of Spike's profile. The blonde's blue eyes are glinting with wicked humor as if it's all just one big joke, and maybe to Spike it is.

It had been a good fight. Almost but not quite as satisfying, as a hard fuck would've been, but Angel _is not going to go there. _He has a girlfriend. He loves Buffy.

There is a trickle of blood coming from the corner of Spike's mouth, and Angel quells the desire to lean over and lick it clean. Spike turns his head to the side, and returns Angel's languid stare. Then, he deliberately licks his own blood away. Message clear: they fight. They don't fuck.

"While we're on the subject, the slayer busted my cell phone. I'm gonna need a replacement," Spike said, out of the big blue, leading Angel to blink. _Subject? What subject?_ _They were just lying here in peace. Bleeding!_

"WHAT?" Angel exploded. "I just bought you that phone and you've broken it already?"

Spike grunted in irritation. "Didn't break it. Told you: slayer busted it when **she** attacked **me** It wasn't my fault!"

Spike hasn't changed. It's always the same. Nothing, but nothing, is ever Spike's fault.

Angelus' favorite stallion? _Rabid badgers. _

Darla's gilded carriage? _Drusilla drove it off the cliffs of Dover. _

The mansion in Kent? _Unruly mob of cuckolded Watchers. It'd been thrall, according to their plump neglected wives. Never mind that young William couldn't muster so much as a glimmer of mind-control._

Cell Phone? _Brassed off Buffy._

Yada yada yada.

"I'm not made of money," Angel snapped. "You're just gonna have to wait until we can afford it." Which, considering their current state of perpetual unemployment, might be a damn long time.

Spike fumed, but didn't make any further demands. Didn't whine. Angel scowled, perplexed, but gradually relaxed. Though, the current turn of conversation had gotten him to thinking about Buffy again. Worrying the matter like a dog with a bone.

"Buffy and I don't last, do we?" Angel asked, the question torn from him.

"What makes you say that?" Spike asked, wearing an aura of faux innocence that is so pathetically transparent that Angel wonders why he even bothers. The way Spike says it, bright blue eyes flickering first to Angel and then away, is a dead give away. Angel has his answer.

"The way you talk about the future sometimes, and then don't," Angel said, hurting inwardly for a loss that hasn't even happened yet. Anger toward the messenger curled his lips back from his teeth, but he suppressed the growl/snarl. _Not actually Spike's fault for once. _Angel has always known in his heart that he's not meant to be with Buffy. Besides the whole vampire/slayer, he knows that he's just not good enough for her.

A ripple of irritation caused Angel's leg to move slightly to the side and his foot brushed the base of the shelf.

Spike sat up, crossing his legs. "Fuck, Angel. Don't go asking me questions if you don't like the answers, alright? No, you and Buffy don't stay together, but that's only the world where I come from. I don't know your future for sure, and I can't say that anything is set in stone. I don't think it's smart for you to go asking me these sorts of questions. A man accepts that his future is fixed and it leads to a sense of futility. You're already bloody depressing enough as it is."

"So where does that leave you?" Angel demanded, suddenly somber. "Knowing the future to come for the next seven years?"

Spike shot Angel a dirty look, clearly hating the question. "Me? I'm fucked. But that doesn't mean you have'ta be too. 'Sides, I'm not like you. I live in the now. Don't think too much 'bout the future or the past." This too is a bald faced lie, but Angel lets it go. He's learned something from Spike about the kinds of ribbing that are okay between buddies, and the thing that hits you where you live.

Spike's hand shot out, grabbing Angel's shoulder, his fingers digging into the meat beneath cool pale skin. The unexpected action caused Angel to tense, expecting a renewal of hostilities. His leg jumped, kicked the shelf, which groaned like an old iron hound dog.

Instead, Spike swore, "Ballocks Angel, you're emaciated! You must be down what- thirty, forty pounds?"

The blonde vampire leaned forward, those bright blue eyes penetrating Angel's soul while those curious fingers continued to flex, feeling Angel up like he's a fattened calf presented for inspection and found wanting.

Angel cringed and looked away. "Something like that," he muttered. Truth be told, it's closer to fifty, but those final ten don't count. Angel has a tendency to put on a little extra weight when he's eating well... But the last time that happened to be a problem was sometime in the 1950's.

"Why're you off your feed?" Spike demanded, refusing to be put off by Angel's rebuff. Spike baffles Angel. The blonde acts like he's only just discovered Angel's anorexic leanness even though they've been hanging out together for well over a month. So WTF? No one as astute as Spike can be so utterly obtuse? Can they?

"Blood for the four of us costs a fortune," Angel said instead of confessing to the dirty little secret, which left him an inebriated mess, lying about in alleys, eating rats, for almost five decades.

However, it is true that money is an issue too. Drusilla barely eats, and they only give their nanny vampire enough to keep her alive, but Spike is a pig. He consumes enough for three vampires his size and yet never seems to put on a spare ounce. Angel can't figure where the hyper blonde puts it all.

Spike stared without blinking, seeing right past Angel's facades, straight to the ugly truth at the heart of the matter. Of course, the paranoia is entirely in Angel's head, because Spike can't read minds. However, the fear persists, and Angel nearly collapses in relief when Spike allows the moment to pass without further comment.

"Why didn't you say so?" Spike said. "I can get money."

"Robbery doesn't conflict with your soul?" Angel snapped.

"I've been down in the dirt eatin' rats," Spike said, looking at Angel with so much pity that the elder vampire longed to crawl away in shame. "I know what it's like."

"When? When in the last two years since you got your soul have you been that low?" Angel's bitterness spelled over the levee of his self-control.

"Have been," Spike said slowly, refusing to be put off. "At first I was crazier than a bag of hammers, livin' in a basement, half starved, raving mad, cutting into myself. Tried to claw out my own heart." His hand touched his breastbone with a swift flutter of fingers.

"I've had a soul a lot longer than two years," Angel muttered, and they were speaking at the same time, over one another, only half listening.

"Took a good friend to pull me up, help me back onto my feet again," Spike confessed.

"Look, can we just let this drop!" Angel exclaimed, shouting now. _Because he's never had a real friend._ "I'm not eating rats, alright!"

Abruptly, they both shut up, staring. Epic silence.

"I can get money," Spike said. "You're forgetting I know things about the economy for years to come. The Internet. The tech boom. When the bloody bubble will burst. Yahoo, Amazon, Ebay, **Google**," he chanted. Most of it sounded like gibberish to Angel. What bubble? And why would it burst?

Angel's jaw clenched, because he doesn't need a stock fortune ten years from now. He needed cash tomorrow. And he wants to refuse Spike's offer, but he's not that stupid. Angel knows enough to recognize when he's in over his head. He needs help. He is going to have to trust Spike.

God help him.

"If you could get some cash, that'd help out a lot," Angel conceded, nodding, feeling the terrible burden of being the sole provider lifting. Suddenly he is remembering that Spike isn't a fledging anymore. He's old enough to be considered a master vampire, and he somehow managed to take care of himself and Drusilla just fine for decades. It's no longer necessary to treat him like a cub. Maybe it never was.

"Don't sweat it, Angel. I'll take care of it tomorrow." Spike stared at him with his toddler soul shining out of the countenance of a demon who is a century cynical. The contrast is sharp and startling, and the combined pity and sympathy in Spike's regard makes Angel squirm.

Angel is no longer friendless. The lion king has a buddy.

Despite his lies to the contrary, it is perfectly clear that Spike regards Angel as a friend. The blonde vampire has years of something _– interaction? _– with some other future version of Angel, which culminated in a tragic but heroic last stand. It boggles the mind: the image of the two of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, facing certain death together.

Angel lacks Spike's experience. He isn't entirely comfortable with his new Spike-shaped friend anymore than he is comfortable with how easy it has been to return to the familial companionship of other vampires. If only Darla were here. It'd have been just like old times, only without the murder and mayhem.

Of course, Darla would ruin it, because that was her thing.

But he has Dru and Spike, and takes consolation in that knowledge. In a dark secret little corner of his soul, Angel can admit that he's missed his vampire family. More than he cares to admit. He'd never have left them if Darla hadn't been so damn insistent that he give up his steady diet of rat for human infant.

However, ailing Drusilla and soulful Spike don't make such demands on him. Spike even drinks pig's blood most of the time even though human can be bought for a price. The blonde does so with plenty of complaining about the taste, mixing in a noxious variety of herbs. Spike pours his blood over Wheatibix, and creates other disgusting concoctions, which make Angel nauseous. But for all of his whinging, Spike never pressures Angel about eating people.

Having a family again makes Angel aware of just how desperately lonely he was before, so alone that he could barely stand to be in his own skin. The companionship of his fellow vampires takes the raw edge off his isolation. Angel likes it well enough that he's begun to worry about what will happen when Drusilla's inevitable end finally comes. She is so weak that her final death can't be very far off, and Angel dreads her loss for a variety of person and disturbing reasons. Soul or no, she is his daughter. And Spike, Spike is his son and brother.

Angel fears that once Drusilla is gone, Spike will leave as well, nothing left to hold him.

Spike isn't like Angel. The blonde vampire is social. He makes connections. It's only been a month, but Spike has already made friends. Not many, but there is the book club, and Joyce Summers, and the kids from his 'band' if the racket they produce can be called music.

Angel went once to watch the Dingoes perform, lurking surreptitiously in the back of The Bronze, listening to the Dingoes joyously produce terrible, nerve-jarring noise. Afterward, Angel rushed home and put on a Michael Bolton CD to clear his head.

The prospect of being alone again terrifies Angel.

While Angel has been thinking, Spike has been talking, babbling on about mostly meaningless thing. However, one topic manages to capture Angel's undivided attention. "You got plans for tonight?" Spike asked. "The Dingoes have a gig at the Shelter Club, so I'll be out late."

"What? No, tonight is Halloween." Angel explained like he was talking to an idiot.

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it," Spike agreed.

"Tonight is Halloween," Angel reiterated. The Irish vampire started at the Brit like he'd grown two heads. Like he's crazy insane for even suggesting that any self-respecting vampire would venture out on All Hollow's Eve. Of course, it comes as no surprise that Spike isn't behaving as a respectable vampire should.

"Nothing ever happens on Halloween," Angel added as if it were necessary to justify his self-association with other vampires.

"Really? They say that, and yet every year the hellmouth manages to spit out a gob of fun, go figure."

Angel's jaw worked. _He wasn't going to bite. Wasn't going to bite. Wasn't-damn..._ "You're kidding. This is one of your bad jokes, right?"

"Nah, it's true. I've got way better material than this if I wanted to take the piss, Angel. The great part is that I wouldn't even have to lie."

"Even setting foot out of the house is crass," Angel retorted, using his selective powers of perception to ignore the fact that they don't even have a house. Just an abandoned factory.

Spike waited, allowing the moment to drag out, no doubt savoring how his smirking face is eating at Angel's nerves. However, Angel stubbornly refuses to give him any satisfaction, statue still, staring straight ahead.

Spike stood with a serpentine smooth undulation. "Buffy's gonna need rescuing," Spike tossed casually over his shoulder.

Angel shot to his feet. "Really?"

Spike started to walk away. "Course, if you're not feeling up to being the big hero then I'm sure that **I** can save the slayer but it'll screw with my gig-"

Angel's meaty fist seized the scruff of Spike's trench, hauling the younger vampire backward. "Tell me more," he demanded of the smirking blonde while mentally conceding defeat. Spike had him. Angel will be going out on Halloween.

They collided with the shelf again, barely brushing it. _bump, feather soft._ And that's when the whole thing crashing came down on top of them. Leaving them in this predicament.

End Part 2.


	3. Willy Hanging

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 3: Willy Hanging**

**2 hours later:**

**Spike:**_Hey Willy, how's it hangin'?_

**Willy: ** _A little to the left._

**Spike: **_That so. Feeling a bit peckish myself._

The barkeep turned his head toward the speaker who had a rough English accent, keeping a good grip upon the crate of cheap Vodka coming in off the delivery truck.

Willy schooled his expression into a polite mask he recognized the pale man as a vampire. Vamps made up enough of Willy's clientele that he knew all the telltales, and could spot one a mile off. This English vampire was a stranger. Willy'd never seen him before.

"Do I know you?" Willy asked, careful not to offend. Even the weakest vampire could reduce the bartender to a blood slurpee inside of three shakes of a lamb's tail.

"No, but I know you." The vampire perched upon one of the barstools, leaning casually against the counter.

"Okaayyy…" Willy exhaled through his nostrils and set the crate down. "What can I do for you then? Pint O'?"

"Yeah, and a pack of Camels. All my previous ones got crushed. I'm Aurelius by the way. Name's Spike. You might know my grand-sire, Angelus."

It might be Willy's imagination, but Spike says his grandpa's name with a lip curl that strongly resembles a sneer, and seems to blow a puff of air, emitting a soft pop that sounds like 'POOF'. Interesting. Must be some tension there. He files the observation away for reference.

"Of course, Angel's in here all the time. One of my biggest customers," Willy said, suddenly extra respectful, more so than before. Angel literally is one of his larger customers. Not the biggest, but looming enough in size and power to make a little guy like Willy nervous. Besides, Bloodline Aurelius makes both Angel and Spike bigwigs in the demon world. It's quite the pedigree.

Word around town has it that Angel is staying at the Anointed One's old factory, along with at least two other vampires. (And Angel buys enough blood to feed a half dozen easy.)

Word around town also has it that Angel & Co. are the parties responsible for dusting the great AO who happened to be The Master's heir apparent. If both rumors pan out, then that makes Angel the defacto master vampire of Sunnydale. Willy happens to have powerful instincts for survival, and he knows whose butt to kiss.

Spike is a chatty fellow, and seems innocuous enough. He hangs out with the bartender for a bit, downing a pint of blood and a few beers, making casual chitchat. The blonde vampire is remarkably gregarious and likeable, especially in comparison with hulking Angel who glares at and threatens Willy in turn.

Willy isn't a fool. He knows that Spike is in his establishment to vet the bar, watching the level of business, counting the take. This is a shakedown. "So, how's this gonna work?" Willy asked, performing some quick mental calculations. He can afford to give Spike seven, maybe nine percent of receipts, if he pinches pennies like Ebenezer Scrooge.

Spike at least has the decency not to pretend that he doesn't know what Willy is talking about. The blonde vampire finishes his beer, and sets the mug down. "I'm gonna be working here two four hour shifts a week, bouncing, bartending, don't really care."

"Uh huh," Willy said, taken aback. This wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting.

"In exchange, our bar tab is covered. Blood, booze, spicy hot wings. And I'll be keeping my tips." Spike shot Willy a look at that pinned the human in place, causing him to freeze up like a deer before a wolf. The precision of it amazed Willy even as he succumbed to a cold sweat, drenched in instinctual fear.

Spike has gone deathly still, cocking his head to the side, as if waiting for an invitation to kill. Willy doesn't intend to offer one. Not ever.

"Any information comes through town – gossip, rumors, wedding announcements – you hear about it, then I'd better hear about it. If you betray me – if I even think that you've betrayed me – I won't hesitate to gut you like a suckling pig and string your intestines from the lighting fixtures. Don't think you can run to the slayer for protection. Angel's hot n' heavy with the bird. She won't even give you the time of day. Got it?"

"Got it." Willy nodded fast and hard. The fact is that the offer is unusually generous. (And it never would have occurred to him to run to the slayer.) He'd expected to have to tithe part of the bar's receipts in exchange for protection. Free food and beverage…in exchange for a few hours of work…is reasonable. Fair. Even if Spike doesn't lift a finger to do any actual work, Willy is getting off easy and he knows it. And, bonus, none of the other vamps around Sunnydale would dare lay a finger on Willy while he was under the protective banner of Clan Aurelius.

Always a businessman, Willy sees another opportunity for profit. "You know, if you're not fussy about what you do, then I can get you at least a thousand a night."

"Really? A grand?" Spike looks intrigued.

"Seriously. More if you're good."

Abruptly, Spike grinned and shook his head. "Thanks, but no, I'll be keeping my clothes on. I've got enough problems without that."

Willy chuckled, and went to fetch his new boss a beer. As he filled the mug, a particularly juicy piece of gossip that he'd overheard from a pair of Kalish demons rose in his thoughts.

"Speaking of news, it might interest you to know that one of your countrymen is in town," Willy began, setting down the mug in front of Spike who cocked a scarred eyebrow in interest.

"Do tell."

End Part 3.


	4. Big Picture Man

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 4: Big Picture Man**

**4 hours later:**

**Door:**_Ding'a'Ling'Ling_

**Ethan Rayne: ** _Hello! I'm in the back! I'll be with you in a moment! _

**Spike: **_Right. A warlock who does his own shopkeepin'. Go figure._

Ethan Rayne prides himself on being a Big Picture Man. He is a visionary whose sweeping concepts of mystical grandeur are the equivalent of Epiphany. His is a special sort of genius. Divine. He is an artist, and magic is his art.

Ethan takes pride in the technical side of his art. For instance, the consignment of costumes that he'd acquired was top-notch. Many were leftovers from theatrical productions, and all were enchanted with his special brand of mojo, a task that has left the warlock knackered and grumpy.

Unfortunately, a focus on the Big Picture tends to lead Ethan into trouble. Sometimes, he has so much of his attention focused on the overall plan that minor problems develop at the implementation level. For instance, in the ideal world Ethan would've hired a shopkeeper to move his wares. Someone with a strong customer service orientation.

Ethan really couldn't stand _customers_, but he supposed he'd have to deal with the bloody idiots if his grand plan was to come to be realized. Burdens to be borne... With that in mind, he stopped fussing with the costume he'd been about to enchant, and set it down.

"You the proprietor of this establishment?" The male voice coming from behind Rayne is English, the accent a rough and tumble mixture of high and low born regional influences. Ethan's acute ear immediately discerns that the speaker is a pretender, a highborn individual attempting to affect a coarser demeanor.

Ethan huffed in disdain, already full of scorn for the faux individual. "That would be I. How can I-" Ethan's sentence cut short, ending in a strangled "Guh!" as he was spun and his shirt front bunched in iron fists. The startled warlock stared terrified and astonished into the game face of a vampire as his back slammed into the wall.

"Ethan Rayne, right?"

The demon is an exceptional specimen: pale flesh, chiseled features, defined musculature. He's beautiful, really, extraordinarily so. However, in many ways he is typical of his kind. The vampire's mouth is just inches from the warlock's face. From his up close n' personal perspective, Ethan can count each and every one of those fangy aspects.

Those teeth are gleaming white, and Ethan wonders absently if the vampire uses a whitener.

"You deaf?" The vampire shakes Ethan once. Hard.

"I am indeed Ethan Rayne, though, I'm afraid that I'm ignorant of your name. How can I help you?" Ethan asked with an ingratiating smile. He put on a customer service friendly smile, behaving as if there were nothing untoward about a vampire entering his shop and assaulting him.

Inwardly, the warlock is cursing his lack of foresight. For _fuck's sake_, this is the _Hellmouth! _Why didn't he thing to erect a protection barrier? A simple _ward versus undead_ would have kept this vampire out. Again, he'd been too caught up in the Big Picture to think of the little things.

"Good. You and I are gonna do a bit of business." Abruptly, the vampire set Ethan on his feet. The warlock watched, astonished at not having his throat forcibly removed, as the vampire shifted to his human countenance.

"We are?" The vampire's steely stare caused Ethan to swallow convulsively. This blonde Dionysus had given Ethan an erotic, edgy scare that had him in a state of semi-arousal.

Clearly, the vampire could smell it, because he sniffed and sneered.

"We are." The vampire withdrew a bundle from within his duster, a leather _thing_ that looked like it'd been used as a saddle blanket for Wild Bill Hitchcock. The vampire thrust the package at Ethan who caught it automatically.

"What's this?" Ethan inspected the bundle, answering his own question. Two drum sticks and a T-shirt bearing the logo of an American rock band. "Err…" Ethan stared at the vampire, suddenly questioning the demon's sanity.

He had some space, and a pair of wooden sticks. Ethan's gaze flew to the vampire's chest. "Don't even think about it," the vampire warned. From his pocket he produced a metal object. It took Ethan a split second to identify it as a railroad spike, which was suddenly aimed at his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed convulsively as the cold tip touched his flesh. "Be smart, do as I say, and you'll come outta this alive. Understand?"

Ethan nodded once. The demon's gaze had locked onto the warlock's throat, in which salvia had accumulated. Ethan furiously suppressed the urge to swallow in spite of his desert dry mouth, so as to not attract further attention.

"Here's how this is gonna play out," the vampire said. "We're gonna head up front to the cash register, and you're gonna sell me that costume. If this doesn't play out the way I envision – if I turn into anything other what I've chosen – if you so much as scratch your balls without my permission, then I'll cut you up into itty bitty pieces and sent your parts gift wrapped care of one Rupert Giles. Got it?"

"Got it," Ethan agreed, hearting leaping into his throat at the sound of his old mate's name. _Ah, his long lost love…_

"And if you're thinking that you can put one over on me and not turn me back, then think again," the vampire continued. "Ever heard of Spike?"

Ethan thought hard, but drew a real blank. "Spike, hum, Spike, er, no, sorry-"

"William the Bloody?"

"Erm, no, sorry."

"Are you sure? Spike? Think hard. I killed two slayers in my time."

"No, doesn't ring any bells, though I do know quite a bit about DracuLUG! GUH! OW! No, no Drac! Never mind! I know nothing!"

"Well, then what about Angelus?" The blonde vampire sounded rueful and embarrassed.

"No, sorry, doesn't ring any bells."

"Drusilla?"

"Oh, wait!" A light went on, and Ethan snapped his fingers. "I met her once in London many years ago! Such an exquisite creature! Why we-"

His face impacting the counter prevented Ethan from relating the tryst he'd shared with the vampiress. "Guh!"

"Good, then you've heard of us. Angel, Dru, n' I we're a family, got that? We look out for one another n' Angel's not one you wanna mess with. Teetering on the verge of insanity, if you take my meaning."

"Er, no, really, I don't," Ethan mumbled. Drusilla had been crazier than a bag of hammers, but he has no idea what this Angel's sanity has to do with Spike's attempts to make a threat. "Why don't you explain it to me?"

Aggravated, Spike growled and shook Ethan. "If something happens to me, if I never recover from this transformation spell, then I'll be avenged. Clear?"

"I assure you that the spell doesn't work that way," Ethan rushed to explain. How the bloody hell had the vampire found out what he had planned? No one, but no one, was privy to the Grand Plan! "Everyone will be transformed at the same time. And once it's over, then everyone will change back to who, er, and what they were. I have no control over individual transformations."

"Neat. Ring me up." The railroad spike disappeared into the vampire's pocket.

"I'll need to uhhh… Bless the costume first."

"Make it quick." Spike motioned impatiently with his hands, and Ethan performed a hasty hex, cursing the clothing so that his transformation spell would affect these items. He seriously considered throwing some other sort of curse into the mix – for a split second – and then thought better of it.

Ethan needed to think of the Big Picture. If it just so happened that a vampire wanted to spend the evening as something other than what he was, then it was no concern of Rayne's. He wasn't willing to risk The Big Picture, not to mention his life, which he happened to value rather highly, on a brassed off vampire.

Ripper would be enough of a handful as it was.

"I'll ring you up now." Moving to the cash register, Ethan randomly pushed some numbers and then hit 'Sale'. "That'll be $17.87."

The vampire dug into his pockets and produced a single bill and some change. "Only got a tenner and fifteen cents." Spike looked at Ethan like he was contemplating homicide again.

Ethan hastily cleared the sale and rang in some new numbers. "Terribly sorry, I forgot that this item is fifty percent off. That'll be $8.94."

Spike gave a nod and grunt of satisfaction, and offered up the tenner. Currency changed hands, and the vampire departed with his costume.

And change.

"Bloody crazy vampires." Ethan wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and then got back to work. He had a lot left to do, and not much time.

End Part 4.


	5. Some Kind of Wonderful

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 5: Some Kind of Wonderful**

**12 hours after the fact:**

**Oz:** _So, you're a vampire?_

**Spike:**

**Long Pause**

**Spike: **_Can'tcha say hello like a normal person?_

**Oz**: _No, sorry. Hello. It's just… Okay, I've been thinking._

**Spike: **_:stares:_

**Oz: **_I've noticed: you're never out before sundown. You smoke but don't breathe. Your skin is never warmer than room temperature. Man, you cast a shadow but not a reflection._

**Spike: **_Alright, yeah, you caught me. Ima vampire._

**Oz: **_So, how's that working for you?_

**Spike:**_Alright, I guess. There are days when immortality wears thin._

**Oz: **_So, is that where the wantin' to be a rock star thing comes in?_

**Spike:**_If you mention Anne Rice then I'll have to hurt you._

**Considering Pause.**

**Oz: **_Cool shirt._

**Spike:**_Thanks._

For Oz, it was a long conversation, and he's now almost exhausted his word quota for the day. The remainder will have to be rationed stingily, doled out in ones and twos, or he risks going over.

Oh yeah, you don't get a reputation for being this taciturn on accident. It takes discipline and hard work.

Spike recognizes and respects the fact that the conversation is over. He walks over to pick up an amp, which weights at least three hundred pounds, and swings it up onto a shoulder, lending a hand at loading the van.

Spike's casual demonstration of his strength is another one of those things that Oz couldn't help noticing. Daniel Osbourne is a watcher without any awareness that an entire class of dedicated professional supernatural observers exists. It isn't something Oz does so much as an extension of who he is. He notices things.

For instance, Oz sees Devon for who he really is, past all of the facades and pretenses. He knows that Devon has a more complex relationship with his hair than any of the girls that he dates. And that Devon is desperately oblivious to his own utter lack of complexity.

Oz sees Stacey the girl-wanabee-boy whose quiet depression is only alleviated when they're jamming together. Her time spent on her keyboard is the only break in her eternal ennui.

Oz sees Spike too, but he has a feeling that he's never seen **all **there is to the blonde drummer. Spike is complex. Spike has layers. Spike, like Shrek is an onion. This whole "vampire" thing is just another added dimension. It's given Oz a lot to think about, to digest, but later. Right now, they've got a gig.

The Dingos are playing opening act for Steel Machine at the Shelter Club in LA. It's just after sunset and they've got three hours to get the van loaded, to make it to the club, and to setup the equipment. The Dingoes can't afford a stagehand, so they handle their own setup.

"I didn't know you were a Chili Peppers fan," Devon said to Spike while they were stuck in traffic on 101. The lead singer had his gaze glued to his own reflection in the rear view mirror. If he were observant, Devon might notice that Spike, seated behind the driver, can't be seen in said mirror. But he isn't, so he doesn't, and Spike and Oz share a smirking glance.

Spike is wearing a Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt with black jeans and dockers. The shirt is snug and huggy of Spike's many muscles. The guy must spend hours working with weights. Oz experiences the briefest spasm of guy envy. Cause while being sly n' handsome are definite assets, chicks really dig the buffness.

"Oh yeah, _love the Peppers," _said Spike. He fiddles with the drumsticks, which he's been holding all evening, twirling them between agile fingers. His attitude is excited and expectant, setting Oz on edge in anticipation of whatever's supposed to happen.

"That your costume?" Stacy asked, indicating a small, neatly printed nametag on Spike's shirt that Oz hadn't noticed before. It reads **Chad Smith.**

"Yeah." Spike smirked as if he were privy to some private joke.

"Cool," Oz said, using up one of his twenty remaining words for the day. He is unsure exactly what to think. Perhaps Spike has an unusually self-denigrating sense of humor. If so, it's sorta sad. After all, the guy isn't _that bad_ of a drummer.

The Shelter Club is cool too. It's Halloween, so lots of teens are in costume. The Dingoes turn on stage comes, and then band launches into its first song, _It Sucks To Be Me, But It Sucks To Be You More_.

Things are moving right along, and they're doing good, performing with a minimum of dropped chords.

Then, between sets, a startled exclamation from the drums drew Oz's attention. He looked, performed a silent double take, and then looked again.

Chad "Funk" Smith – arguably one of the greatest drummers alive - is sitting where Spike used to be.

It goes without saying that all of the Dingoes turned to stare.

"Hey, where am I? What's going on?" Chad asked.

Oz hesitated, doing a quick summation in his head. Spike's costume + Halloween It's a weird world don't you know? Sad, when a situation could be reduced to a Backstreet Boys song.

"Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming," Chad said, conveniently supplying his own rationalization for lack of handy explanation.

"Wow, Chad Smith!" Devon exclaimed, all of the sudden. "Wow, you're like… a music genius!"

"Wow," Stacy echoed.

"Am I dreaming?" Chad asked, looking to Oz, perhaps due to his lack of babbling, for confirmation.

"Must be if you're jamming with us," Oz agreed. _Only twelve words left. _

Luckily, Chad nodded and accepted, not demanding a detailed explanation. The Dingoes finished out their set, and with Chad Smith on drums, they absolutely rocked. They were on fire. The audience went wild, and the Dingoes came back on for three encores.

Oz figured it just about rated _Coolest Thing Ever. _

But he hoped that they eventually got Spike back.

End Part 5.


	6. Marshmallow Cocoa

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 6: Marshmallow Cocoa**

**18 hours after the fact:**

**Devon: **_Man, where'd you go? You totally missed it! Chad Smith! It was fucking amazing! Stacy, tell him how cool it was!_

**Stacy: **_Really cool._

**Devon: **_Man, where'd you go?_

**Spike: **Guess I chose the wrong moment to step out for a smoke. Chad Smith, huh? And I suppose we've got a gig with Metallica next week?

**Stacy: **_Devon, he doesn't believe us._

**Hesitation.**

**Stacy: **_It was Halloween…_

**Devon: **_No! No way! That dude was totally Chad Smith! No random dude could've played like that! Oz, tell him!_

**Smirking silence.**

**Stacy: **_He's hit his word quota._

The glare of headlights and rumble of an approaching engine caused Joyce Summers to look up as an old model van rolled around the curve of the road. Joyce crouched beside the flat front tire of her SUV, which she already had up on a jack. She tensed as the van slowed, apprehensive and anticipating trouble.

"Joyce?"

"William?" His familiar English accented voice caused Joyce to weaken with relief. She set down the tool in her hand, and scrambled to her feet, silently wincing at the gravel embedded in her knees.

"You have no idea how glad I am to see you!" Joyce exclaimed, smiling as she took wobbling steps toward the idling van. Her heels didn't jive with the gravel anymore than her knees.

William opened the passenger side sliding door opened and hopped out. "Got a flat tire, love? Do you need a hand?" Even as he asked, he was reaching for the tool shaped thingy that Joyce had been using (or trying to use) to loosen the lug nuts.

"Yes please," Joyce replied immediately, overjoyed to have a gentleman coming to her rescue.

"Spike, do you want us to wait?" asked the young man at the wheel of the van.

"Nah, go on. I'll be alright." William closed the door and approached Joyce, flashing her one of his cocky grins.

Her stomach contracts appreciatively, turning somersaults and causing her to flush. William is far too self-assured and confident of his own attractiveness for Joyce's tastes. If it weren't for the fact that he is a) too young for her, b) unfailingly sweet, and c) an absolute gentleman, then she'd be reluctant to encourage his friendship. Those three factors combine, though, to allow Joyce to enjoy his company without any fear of things getting out of hand.

Besides, Joyce isn't completely naive. She understands the significance of William's tongue piercing… He is gay. His emotional intelligence, sensitivity, and poetical nature prove it. His rough exterior isn't fooling her.

He is safe. Joyce can appreciate his male beauty with complete confidence that it will never go anywhere. It is wonderful to be able to be so honest with a man, and not have to worry about him getting the wrong idea.

The driver of the van checked oncoming traffic, and then pulled out. From the looks of the van and the young people within, Joyce guessed this to be William's band.

"I knew the tires needed to be replaced, but I waited too long," Joyce explained with an embarrassed air. She'd tried to squeeze a few more miles out of the tires, and it'd backfired and bit her on the ass.

"It happens. Why're you out so late, love?" William asked, setting to work on the tire. The muscles in his arms and back rippled and bunched, moving with smooth precision.

"Working late. I had a shipment of Anasazi pottery come in that needed to be unpacked and set up for display."

"Couldn't wait till morning?" William asked, loosening the last lug nut and removing the flat tire, which he hooked with one hand and took around to the trunk

"No, I've got a buyer from Pottery Barn coming in first thing," Joyce explained, trailing along behind him. "The spare is right-"

"Found it." William swapped out the flat for the spare.

"There." Joyce folded her arms and followed William back to the front of the car, feeling a tad conspicuous as he fitted the spare to the wheel.

"Why'd your friend call you 'Spike'?" she asked.

"Just a nickname," he replied, flashing her a grin. "When I was a lot younger, I thought it made me sound tough. It stuck." Task complete, he rose and returned to the trunk in order to put away the tool thingamabob.

"Well, I like William much better," Joyce said, earning a smile from him. "I definitely owe you a ride. Where can I take you?"

A tense and awkward silence descends. William clearly doesn't want to discuss his residence, and the blonde's expression shifts rapidly from reluctance to subterfuge. His decision to lie is as plain as day.

"That's alright, my place is a couple blocks from here. I'll walk."

Joyce carefully hid her reaction. Initially, his duplicity surprises her. However, she recovers quickly. Abruptly, Joyce realizes that William doesn't want to discuss where he lives, because he is homeless. Immediately, sorrow and contrition melt her heart. She feels a terrible empathy for him, and the thought crosses her mind to offer him their couch until he gets back on his feet…

Right up until the vision of Buffy's reaction enters her head.

"Ride home with me then, and I'll make you some hot chocolate," Joyce suggested with a kind smile, reaching out to touch his arm, to offer acceptance and show him that it was okay.

He looked up with shining blue eyes. "With the little marshmallows?" he asked like an eager child.

"With the little marshmallows," Joyce agreed with a laugh.

End Part 6.


	7. Caught Red Handed

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 7: Caught Red Handed **

**19. Are you still keeping track?**

**Snogging Sounds.**

**Buffy:**_Mmmm…_

**Angel:**_So, am I forgiven?_

**Buffy:****_lipsmack_**

_Maybe…_

**_lipsmack_**

_I'm thinking about it._

**Angel: **_I did save you tonight._

Kisses slayer passionately. 

**Buffy: **_Siiigh. Okay, you're forgiven. This time._

**Downstairs door opens and closes.**

**Joyce:** _Buffy, I'm home! I've brought a friend!_

Buffy broke the kiss, licking her lips. The cool, delectable taste of Angel's mouth remained on her tongue even as they drew apart, panting hard. Buffy stared up at her boyfriend, and he stared back before his dark gaze flickered towards her bedroom door, listening for the sound of Joyce Summers' footsteps on the stairs.

"You'd better go," Buffy said, her fingers clinging to his shirt, reluctant to let go. As usual, she is Jell-O, and Angel is an ice cube. Though she appreciates that her creature-of-the-night boyfriend never turns their intense make out sessions into Grope-apalooza, Buffy still longs to see him lose his unfailing self-control.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked.

"No, not mad." The slayer frowned faintly. She loved Angel with all of her heart, but The Incident with Spike has planted seeds of doubt. She can forgive Angel, but her trust has been broken, and is now on the mend. It might never be as strong as it was before.

Angel's a good guy, but his hat is dusty gray from having gone too long without a thorough washing.

"I _am_ sorry," Angel asserted, sounding a little irritated and somewhat offended that he's still having to grovel. His expression is bitchy.

"I said you're forgiven," Buffy snapped in return, tensing. He'd better not push it. She's not in the mood, and this isn't the time. And if Angel wants to compete for the title of Queen Bitch, then he's got some serious contenders to take down. Buffy herself, and Cordelia, to start…

Angel scowls, and his expression is adorable: sulky and mutinous. Abruptly, Buffy smiled at him, softening again. It helps that he's dedicated so much time and energy to groveling following The (Spike) Incident. It shows that he cares about her.

And while Buffy rightly recognizes her right to be called a heroine, there's that part of her that longs to be a normal girl. Deep down, she is secretly pleased that it was _Angel_ who came to her rescue when her Halloween costume transformed her into an 18th century noblewoman.

Angel played the part of dashing hero and saved the girl, rescuing Buffy from a horde of demon minions. Then, afterward, he'd been sweet and adamant about asserting his preference for tough and together Buffy-slayer to Buffy-ditz.

Yeah, she can forgive him. _This time._

There are voices coming from downstairs in the kitchen. Buffy's mom has brought home a man, a thing that causes gooseflesh to crawl along Buffy's arms and the back of her neck. A potential _mom's boyfriend_ is creepier than a hundred vampires.

"You'd better go," Buffy repeated with urgency, leaning in to steal a final passionate kiss from Angel. She needs to get downstairs and make sure that her mother's chastity isn't being compromised.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Angel said, slipping backward out the window of her bedroom. He flashed her a final smile and then vanished into the night.

Buffy performed a quick self-inspection in the mirror to make sure that she doesn't look unkempt, and ran a quick brush through her hair. Then she descended the stairs on silent slayer feet.

The sound of laughter reached her ears before she could make out the words. Sly n' stealthy, Buffy reached the bottom of the stairs, easing around the corner in order to eavesdrop. A tingle along her spine acted as a premonition to warn Buffy that her mom's guest is a demon. A second later, she recognizes Spike's voice.

"There the two of us are, arse over elbow on the nastiest Spanish Fly rotgut you can imagine! We're up on top of this inn on a slanty roof overlooking an avenue where they're runnin' the bulls down below. It was a sweet vantage, if you can imagine-"

"Oh, I can imagine!" Joyce replied with a husky laugh.

"-only the tiles are sorta slippery cause there'd been some rain earlier on. Angel makes like he's seen something right below us and he says to me-"

Buffy froze in the act of bursting forth from her hiding spot in order to interrupt the brash bout of way too much fun going on in her kitchen. The name of her boyfriend froze the slayer in her tracks.

"'Will me lad, look at the titties on that whore! Will me lad, they're **enormous**!' 'n he makes with his hands like this! 'Will me lad, it's a fucking miracle she can stand upright!' he says-" Spike mimed a thick Irish accent unlike anything Buffy'd ever heard Angel speak.

"Noooo!" Joyce denied, gasping for air.

"'Yeah?' I said, peering on over the edge. Cause I _had_ to look, tits that large. Was droolin' at bit, imaginin' them titties. Mind you, I was havin' one of my dumber moments, trustin' Angel like that."

"What happened?" Joyce prompted, gushing laughter.

"'Don't see her,' I say. 'Lean on out a little further. She's right below an overhang,' says Angel. So, I lean out and sure enough-"

"He didn't!" Joyce exclaimed.

"He did. Wanker plants his foot to my arse, and sends me right on over the edge. I landed flat on my back in the mud with about a hundred enraged bulls comin' right at me-"

"Oh. My. God." Joyce's laughter should've drowned out Buffy's disbelieving gasp, but for certain factors that couldn't be taken into account. Acute vampire hearing for one.

Spike's head poked around the kitchen corner, and Buffy got caught red handed, eavesdropping. "Evenin'," he said. His brow is her arched enemy.

End Part 7.


	8. Want Take Have

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 8: Want. Take. Have. **

**19-1/2**

**Joyce: **_Buffy! Oh, I didn't see you there! This is my friend, William. I got stranded on the way home from the gallery with a flat tire and William helped me fix it._

**Buffy: **Hi.

**Spike: **'ello.

**Awkward silence.**

Buffy fumed over both the impertinent smirk upon "William's" lips. _Annoying jerk. _He is really starting to annoy her. She wants to stake him for daring to look so damn smug.

Also, Buffy couldn't believe her mother's audacity. What's with the sudden June Cleaver act anyway? Just seconds ago Joyce was giggling hysterically at Spike's raunchy story. Hello? Hypocrite much!

It has to be a lie. Because…Angel? Doing those things? Speaking with that brogue? Using the word _titties…_

_Angel…?_

Her head feels like a crash test dummy that's hit the wall doing 80.

_Her Angel?_

_Titties?_

To make matters worse, Buffy is Wiggin on a whole new level cause her mother has unwittingly invited yet another vampire into the house. Following the Meat Fork Incident with Darla, Buffy has worried that it might happen again, and here it has. Thank goodness that Spike is relatively benign. A cocoa-sipping, tire-changing vampire with a soul…

Which is the reason that Buffy won't be attempting to wipe that smirk off his face with either fist or stake… That, and the fact that she's already tried and failed.

The memory of being smashed facedown into the pavement with his fangs against her throat is recent and vivid, springing immediately to the front of her thoughts. Buffy shuddered, and her face contorted with revulsion. She'd come so close to dying at his hands.

Spike flinched as if physically hit. "Time for me to be going," he announced. He gently set the empty mug on the counter next to the sink. "Thanks for the cocoa, Joyce."

Joyce appeared disappointed, but nodded and smiled. "Will I see you at book club this week, William?"

An odd expression crossed Spike's face. Like he hated the thought, but he'd attend anyway. "Count on it."

The door shut behind Spike with a subdued click.

Buffy looked at her mother. Joyce sucked in a deep breath and her lips parted as she prepared to launch into a "mother-daughter" talk. No doubt concerning the trauma of post-divorce dating, and how Buffy won't be expected to call Spike "Daddy".

It fills her head with Polaroid photos: all of them very **wrong**. Spike and Joyce at their wedding, which must be held at night and nowhere near a church, so the groom doesn't become flambé vampire. A honeymoon more likely held where they have six-month nights instead of Hawaii. A cute bouncy infant with a bad case of albinism, and the cutest widdle fangs you can ever imagine…

Isn't it enough that Buffy must deal with her own unending angst as she confronts the paradoxical nature of her relationship with Angel? MUST her mother do this to her?

"Buffy," Joyce began with that soothing mommy tone, half-patronizing, half-concerned.

Buffy's slayer reflexes kicked into overdrive.

"Oh Boy! Am I tired! Tuckered out! Pooped! Big yawn!" Buffy pretended to stifle one, and darted in to plant a quick kiss on her mother's cheek.

"Off to bed with me! Early to bed, early to rise! Happy, wealthy, and wise!" Buffy recited as she darted up the staircase.

"Good night, Buffy," Joyce called, sounding wry.

"Night!" Buffy gave a final chirpy parting, and closed her bedroom door. She listened to be sure that footsteps weren't following her, and then shut off the light. The slayer darted across the room and out the open window.

She gives chase and this time he is expecting her. Spike whirls and assumes a defensive stance, fists coming up to protect his face. _He hates having his nose broken. _She's already registered that tidbit from their first clash, filing it away in her slayer database, should she ever need it again.

"No sick pervy goings on with your mum, slayer, so turn around and trot your dirty-minded self on home!" he snapped.

Buffy blushed. Hard. Two bright red blossoms appeared on her cheeks. "I'm not here to fight."

"Good."

"I want-" she began, but he cut her off.

"Saw that look, slayer," Spike said. "You want me to stay away from you and your mum. Thing is, Joyce and I are adults and we're well past the age of needing approval. Now if that's settled, I'll be going." His words are not nearly as flippant as he'd like to believe. There is underlying bitterness, and for some reason that Buffy doesn't understand, he obviously cares what she thinks of him.

He walked straight at her, brushed past, giving her a good whiff of smoke and leather, and the whisper of whisky. He took control of the situation and set her neatly off balance, forcing her to follow him if she wanted to talk.

Buffy stopped, refusing to follow, inwardly fuming. She is _really _starting to hate him! Just who the hell does he think he is?

"That's not what I wanted to say," she protested. What she's about to say sticks in her craw, however, Buffy's sense of right and wrong is mammoth. She cannot allow him to continue to operate under the impression that she thinks he's scum. It just won't do.

"I know you're a nice guy. Thanks for helping my mom out with the flat." The aftermath of their fight has left more than Buffy emotionally devastated. She remembers Spike's hunched shoulders, blue eyes bright with tears, and the agony in his voice.

The both of them walked away with regrets. Dirtier. Wiser. But what's important is that both of them walked away. From there they can move forward. The future's always brighter when someone isn't trying to kill you.

Spike looks back, momentarily surprised, and then puzzled. "I am? And you'd know that how?"

Buffy's brow shot up. "Well, you didn't kill me. Duh. And you fixed my mom's flat. And mom likes you, and she's a pretty spot on judge of character." (Darla aside. And even moms are allowed occasional lapses of judgment.)

Spike looks more skeptical than he should, as if he's expecting her to rain down nothing but insults. Buffy stared at him. "Why? Are you evil pretending to be good, and this is all just some elaborate plot to suck me in?" _Vampires sucking_. Buffy inwardly groans at her own poor choice of words.

If vampires could blush, Spike would've been bright red. "Even if it were most of my grand plans tend to get all bollixed up."

"Lousy tactician in addition to being a slovenly dresser," Buffy said, nodding her head as if filing away the data for future reference. Who knows, maybe it'd come in handy. Though, really, his black-on-black 'outfit' isn't all that bad. But what is it about vampires and the color black? Their preoccupation with the color is not only morbid, but unoriginal too.

The change in appearance is drastic. He is wearing black denim jeans and a black tee shirt bearing a logo beneath a beat up leather _thing_ that might've been a duster in a previous incarnation. Gone are the pressed trousers, cashmere sweater, and shiny loafers. He looks like a whole 'nother person, and it is weren't for that his distinctive pale beauty and that rough English accent, Buffy might've wondered if he were the same vampire.

"Were the clothes I ruined your only nice ones?" Buffy said, and his mercurial expression morphs to outraged denial, telling her that she's hit the truth on the head. Spot on.

"Got plenty of fancy threads!" Spike glared at her, causing Buffy to smirk. She resisted the urge to openly gloat. _Girl gettin' some of her own back._ Oh yeah…

Her grin coaxed a smidgen of a smile to his lips. "What then?" His sharp blue eyes contained guarded curiosity. His guard is lowering.

Buffy swallowed, suddenly nervous, once again noticing his sublime masculine beauty. He smells nummy. And he's so hot that he makes her nether regions ache. On a purely instinctual level, her primordial slayer knows the right way of doing things: Want. Take. Have.

As simple as that.

She wants them both.

Oh God, if she wasn't already with Angel… If if if… _No, Bad Buffy. _She is Angel's girl. End of story.

"What do you want, slayer?" Spike asked, managing to make the question obscene and suggestive, the way his lips wrap around the word. She wishes that he'd call her 'Buffy' even though slayer is precisely the degree of impersonal that they must maintain. _Because they are strangers even though he looks at her like a long lost lover._

"I-I-I want you," Buffy stuttered. Straight from the hips, and past the lips…

Spike's eyes got way wide.

End Part 8.


	9. What the Girl Wants

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 9: What the Girl Wants**

**20 **

**Buffy: **_I want you._

**Spike: **_'Xcuse me? Not sure I'm hearin' you right._

**Buffy: **_Not like that! I don't mean want-want-_

**Spike: **_How then? Would that be 'uncontrollable lust' or 'unbridled passion' want? Cause, gotta say,_

**Buffy: **_Shut up, already!_

**Spike: **_I'm an old fashioned guy at heart. _

**Buffy: **_Will you quit!_

_**Spike: **Prefer to be romanced. Dinner and flowers._

**Buffy: _So_**_ not interested!_

**Spike: **_ Maybe a box o' chocolates._

**Buffy: **_In anything but that whole punch-spin combo-_

**Spike: **_You'll have to be gentle with me._

**Buffy: **-_that you used to take me down._

**Spike: **_I've been hurt._

Buffy wound up hitting him in the arm just to get him to shut up. Spike grinned and seemed to accept the physical reprimand as his due.

"So you're sayin' that you want me to hit you?" Spike drawled, adopting a lazy stance, arms crossed. He managed to appear both smug and puzzled at the same time.

"Yes, no, yes." Okay, Buffy tongue had gotten all twisty-turvy. Buffy shut up and glared at him. Irritating, infuriating twit! He had her cool so blown that it'd have taken an Icee machine to get it back.

Lucky for Buffy, slayers had to be Teflon coated. Nothing stuck. She concentrated, envisioning his irksome verbiage hitting an invisible wall and slithering in a smashed puddle to her feet.

"That combo you used when we fought- to win? I want for you to show me how you did it. Again," Buffy asserted, lifting her chin, righteous and perky in her determination to have her way.

"Can't say that I'm eager to throw down with you again, slayer," Spike said, reluctant and suspicious. However, his blue eyes flickered with unwilling curiosity.

Buffy's jaw set, lips compressing, a fine line forming in the furrow of her brow. She doesn't really care what Spike wants. This is about what _she_ wants, and the slayer is determined to have her way. No matter what it takes.

"I could pay you," Buffy began, wincing as she envisioned Giles' reaction. "I'd have to talk to my Watcher."

"No!" The vehemence of his denial startled her. Instant rebellion sprung up on the blonde vampire's face. His stance is mutinous, and Buffy grasps immediately that she adopted the wrong tactic.

"Keep your money," he said, clearly insulted, turning away.

"Wait!" She won't allow him to leave.

Spike spins around, and Buffy realizes after the fact that she has grabbed hold on his arm. Bright blue eyes glare down into her face, and Spike comes toward her so that their weights offset, and they are spinning, slow and precisely counterbalanced.

"I need to learn how to counter it," Buffy persisted doggedly, refusing to release him. _"I have to know."_ Her urgency communicates itself, and Spike appears to comprehend. She isn't making a trivial request. Her life hangs in the balance. Literally. Every gap in her combat skills leads to death.

"Are you sure that's all you want me for?" His tone, his _look_…insinuate. His hand is on her arm now, and he's taken her simple attempt to stop him from leaving, and turned it into a dance. Their bodies follow their feet, flowing together in synchronized precision. The maneuvers could be basic combat or the steps to the tango.

_He murdered two slayers before he acquired a soul._

_His intimate knowledge of her body & kinetics is easily explained._

For Buffy, the rationale fails, falling short of the gap between what her mind knows, and what her body feels…

"Winning's not about having the best moves, slayer," Spike said, still trying to talk her out of it.

He changes tactics again. "Are you feeling your mortality, slayer? Did Death come rappin' at your door?"

His words are like a chill wind, mockery that flays her to the bone, causing Buffy to shudder. _Yes, yes, precisely. How did he know?_

_Because he is the one who almost killed her._

"Show me," she demands, expression set, stubborn and determined.

Spike laughs and acquiesces without words. His capitulation is sudden and surprising. Somehow, she expected him to be more of a challenge. She thought that he'd make her fight for the fight, but he rolls over beta to her alpha. For Buffy, who struggles with Angel for every single inch given and granted, it's a refreshing change.

Releasing her, Spike squared off, adopting an aggressive stance. "Alright, watch. I'll demonstrate once at half speed." He came at her using the coveted punch-spin combo, his movements swift even at reduced pace.

Buffy met his attack, countering all but one of the blows. Without being asked, Spike goes through the combo again, allowing Buffy to learn to defend against his attack.

"Again. Bring it," she commanded.

He is hell for leather fast. He is a blur as he comes at her full speed, launching the same attack as before. Buffy managed to counter every single punch, devising an effective defense, and then countering with a punch-kick combo of her own that penetrates his guard. Her foot hits his chest dead center, driving him back.

They continued to spar for a minute longer, dancing across asphalt and grass, leaping over obstacles as they boogie through the cityscape. His lithe grace, strength, and speed please her. Buffy had never had a sparring partner who is her equal in ability, and the competition thrills her.

Tension crackles between them. They have an undeniable connection, a rush of excitement, charged energy. Buffy has never experienced anything quite like an opponent who is her equal without fear of being killed. It grants her the freedom to be creative and to push her limits. The possibilities for innovation are endless.

"There, you've got it down. I'll be on my way now."

And just like that, the possibilities are zilch.

"Wait! What did you mean about winning not being about the moves?" Buffy shot around him and got in his way. This time she didn't yield when he tried to brush past.

Spike stopped. Stared. Hard. "What do you want from me, slayer?" The way he calls her that is weird. As if he's trying to create distance between them even though they share no real intimacy at all.

Buffy frowns. This annoying vampire is both confusing and crazy. "I-" What did she want? The question revolved on a point of ambiguity within her mind. "I'd like your help. Honing my technique."

"What's wrong with it? Hasn't Angel taught you how to use your tongue?"

"OH!" The Slayer huffed. She puffed. She smacked that insolent wolf on the back of his bleached blonde head.

Spike grinned and laughed, enjoying their banter far more than he should. It makes Buffy feel weird…because it is wrong and strange…and she feels guilty. Because his hand has risen to touch the place where she smacked him, and he smirks, blue eyes sparkling, as if it were a caress instead of a slap.

"Now who's the filthy-minded gutter person?" Buffy demanded.

"Guess that'd be me," Spike replied wryly. "Least I'm not a big ol' killjoy."

Buffy huffed. Puffed up. But no wolf-smackage this time. "I'm not! I'm all about having fun! Loads and loads of fun! Just ask- anyone!"

The vampire stared at her, smiled slyly, and shrugged. "That so?" Funster Buffy. He sounded intrigued, which does nothing to help Buffy's color return to its normal peachy hue. Her face remains bright red.

"Will you spar with me or not?" _Through blind persistence, the slayer will prevail._ It ought to be a **Prophecy**. Buffy _believes_ that there is nothing that cannot be had through determination and effort. The slayer is confident that she can have her way. He must acquiescence to her will, just as he did before, if only she keeps after him.

Spike exhaled. Slow. Exasperated. "Can't you spar with Angel?"

"Angel and I aren't like that," Buffy retorted, almost sputtering to think of the awful awkwardness that such a request would provoke. Angel is so terribly sensitive about being a vampire. Asking him to spar with her…he might sulk, or brood, or – God Forbid - get his feelings hurt.

_No, no, that won't do._

"Oh, no, of course, not. That might shatter the illusion that the great poof is a boyfriend, and not a two hundred year old demon, wouldn't it?" Spike's sneer, his intimacy, his startling insight… It leaves Buffy with an almost uncontrollable impulse to break his nose.

"Oooh! You're such an ass! Are you this obnoxious without a soul?" Buffy fumed, balling her fists. _No hitting. No hitting. No hitting._

Spike grinned, wide and white. "Actually, I'm worse." He laughed, that sneer dissolving into mirth with mercurial swiftness, leaving Buffy baffled.

"You think Angel would hold back even if he agreed, don'tcha?" Spike asked, again with that disturbing insightfulness.

Buffy deliberately ignored the question. True or not, it's none of his business. "Will you spar with me or not?"

"What's in it for me?"

He had her with that one. Buffy fell silent, thinking hard as she tried to come up with any conceivable reason why he might agree. He has already rejected money, and it is obvious that he is reluctant to risk incurring Angel's jealousy.

He and Angel are friends. Angel and Buffy are air quotes dating /air quotes . A reluctance to avoid a compromising situation is something that Buffy both understands and wants as well.

But more than that she wants to learn, to grow stronger, better, in order to win. As a slayer, she can't afford to pass on any knowledge that might extend her notoriously short life expectancy.

"You okay?" Spike asked, looking concerned at Buffy's lengthening silence. He stared at her with an old soul shining out of his eternally youthful face, conveying the impression of a man being helplessly sucked into a vortex against his will. Of course, it is completely ridiculous because Buffy had no such power over him.

With Angel a Buffy pouty-face might've caused the vampire to get bendy to her will. Spike doesn't even know her.

His eyes are world weary, and the look he gives her is vulnerable. Buffy is once again overwhelmed with weirdness. His expression is one of submission and surrender, regret and resignation. Buffy is unable to reconcile the intensity and longing in his blue eyes, so she looks away. They are strangers.

"Fine," Spike spat out the word, then swiftly moderated his tone. "You win. I'll spar with you, but on my terms. Two things-"

"You will? Just like that?"

"My terms," he said. "No hittin' outside of practice, and I can call the whole thing off any time I think things are getting' out of hand. If I say we're quits, we're quits."

"Okay, deal!" Buffy nodded her head, sealing their agreement quickly before he can change his mind. She barely registers his stipulations. What's important is that she's won. He'll teach her what he knows, and in turn she'll become a better, tougher, harder-than-ever-to-defeat slayer. The girl got what she wants!

Buffy is puffed up proud of her own cleverness, her house of cards stacked a mile high, when Spike knocks it all out from under her.

"Oh, and you can be the one to explain this to Angel, Goldilocks."

End Part 9.


	10. Unfettered

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 10: Unfettered**

**22**

**Spike: **_Dru, pet… What're you doing up there?_

**Drusilla: **_My bodice came unfettered…_

**Spike: **_So'd your knickers, from the looks of it._

**Drusilla: **_I felt fettered._

**Spike:**_I'm sure you did. Now hold on tight while I climb up._

**Drusilla: **_Spike?_

**Spike:**_ Yes Dru?_

**Drusilla:** _It shan't be long before we're all unfettered._

"And a bloody lovely bunch o' nudists we shall be," Spike agreed beneath his nonexistent breath. "Angel will be thrilled. Can't wait to tell the magnificent poof."

Pause. "On the other hand, never mind that. He might take it to heart, then I'd have to gouge my own eyes out."

"Where'd your nanny get to, love? You're not supposed to be alone," he said.

"I sent her on an errand," Drusilla replied primly. It is none of his business. She, like him, has secrets to keep.

Spike reached the top of the ladder, and stepped out onto the catwalk. With deft steps, he moved toward where Drusilla precariously perched upon a cable as if it were a swing, swaying pedantically to and fro.

"It burns, it burns," Drusilla's complaint ended in a plaintive whimper as Spike brought his brilliant soul into physical proximity. She cried out in pain, and cringed from his touch. In her weakened state, it hurt her like sunlight, searing her flesh from the bone.

Spike's soul offends more than Angel's, and it is not because one is nobler or purer than the other. The mortal slight lies in the method of acquisition. Spike's soul is a _choice_, a burden willingly assumed, and deliberately incorporated into his identity. He wears it like a suit of armor.

Angel's soul is inflicted, rather like a disease, and Drusilla can almost forgive him for having fallen victim to the curse. Angel wears his soul like a hair shirt, and just beneath the surface Drusilla can always sense her daddy, yearning for his freedom with savage passion.

"Course it does, pet. Price one pays for being stupid enough to get a soul just to impress a girl," Spike said with a weary sigh, gathering Drusilla into his arms in spite of her weak struggles.

Violent, excruciating pain defined her entire existence on the short trip down the ladder. Somehow, Spike kept them both from plunging off the precipice of reality. Time bent like a windy serpent, enwrapping them in its coils. Tighter and tighter the crushing spiral, sucking her downward, outward, inside and out.

Spike lowered Drusilla to the leather sofa, and pulled a blanket over her. She shivered and curled into a fetal position as violent chills ravaged her ruined body.

"Spike, I am gruel – made of mush. I am a desiccated husk. Soon I shall turn to dust," Drusilla said, able to manage coherent speech once he'd removed his burning hands.

Spike stood frozen over her, helpless and indecisive. His wretched failing: the guilt and the less-than-love concern. It turned her gut, tasting worse than the vile pig's blood that Angel and Spike occasionally force down her throat.

Ashes in her mouth, clogging her throat with their ineffectual weakness. The two of them kept a deathbed vigil, hovering constantly, staring with expectant gazes, for her to die. Her only remaining family…both of them smothered beneath cloying souls, drowning in the putrid pus of the serpent.

"You stink of her," Drusilla whispered, opening her eyes in order to stare up at her lost childe. He gazed down at her with his false love bleeding from his eye sockets, falling upon her like dead rose petals.

Spike sniffed himself in self-inspection. "Right. Had a bit of a scuffle with the slayer. I'll have to shower and change before Angel gets back."

"You've gone all away. To her." Drusilla laughs, bitterly, because Angel bears a nearly identical taint. Both her sire and childe, so completely different, and yet they are the same.

"Now Dru, you know that's not true." Spike's blue eyes are guarded. He keeps secrets from Angel, from the mother, from the slayer, and even the one who will worship at the moon. He keeps secrets from everyone, including himself. **Lies.**

Drusilla laughed: low, deep, and rich. He thinks he can deceive her. But she knows better.

"The slayer. Your heart stinks of her. Poor little thing. She has no idea what's in store." Drusilla can see the future: clear, bold, and bright. She has a vision of the torment and suffering to come. It is a rare delight, an epiphany of suffering and misery, and great great loss.

Spike's gaze sparked with raw defiance. "She might not, but I do, cause I know the future better even than you," he said. His fists are balled, but he is ineffectual and helpless before his uncertainty. "And I intend to stop it. To change it."

Drusilla rolled her head toward the ceiling, and brought her hands to rest upon her tummy, composing her corpse into the traditional posture of eternal slumber.

"You'll try," she replied sweetly, causing him to scowl.

Concern. Worry. Doubt. He is scared.

"I won't allow it to happen again," he said, trying to convince himself more so than Drusilla. "They can't go on like this forever. I can see that. It's gotta end."

"Poor poor Spike. You jump through her hoops, trick for your treats, but she doesn't see you, does she? Never has, never will. No treats for you, bad dog. It is all for him." She growled at Spike, flashing her fangs.

"His soul is the morning mist, burning before the light of her love," Drusilla whispered. The exertion of changing to game face has left her terribly weakened.

There is a boom inside of her skull.

"Daddy is home," Drusilla predicted with uncanny certainty just seconds before Angel strolled through the factory doors.

Spike's entire body convulses as a leap of paranoid suspicion overtakes him. Drusilla giggled, delighting in the aggressive display as Spike's eyes flash golden and game face overtakes his countenance. A challenging growl rolls forth from the back of his throat, and his muscles bunch in readiness for combat.

His expectation of Angelus is paramount.

End Part 10.


	11. Secrets & Shame

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 11: Secrets & Shame**

22-1/2

There is nothing to say.

Between master vampires, a glance, a snarl, can shatter a fragile truce, and stead allies can become enemies. The space of a pace separates them, and there is no doubting the sincerity of Spike's fear and rage. The genuine pheromones flood Angel's nose, provoking his demon to a reciprocal response.

Angel fought the instinctual urge to go to game face, desperate that this sudden hostility be mistaken. The brown paper bag clutched between Angel's fingers crunched conspicuously, and he almost dropped it, and then held it tighter. The bottle of aged double malt scotch that Angel purchased to celebrate Spike's newfound employment will make an effective weapon.

And yet, for whatever reason, Spike fails to launch the attack that he initiated, and Angel senses doubt.

"What brought this on?" Angel asked carefully, locking gazes with his grandchilde. He is calm and commanding, deliberately drawing on long dormant alpha skills in an attempt to stare Spike down. He holds the bottle ready, and yet it would be a shame to waste it. Just like it is a shame that he and Spike are suddenly at each other's throats.

"Angel?" Spike's voice is not steady. He has doubt – of what Angel has no clue – and clearly the blonde vampire is attempting to work something through in his head.

"That'd be me. What's wrong, Spike, finally losing your grip?" Angel cannot resist taking a verbal jibe regardless of the questionable wisdom. He too is suddenly scared and angry, and the confrontation unfolding reminds him too much of having to square off against Buffy at the Bronze following Darla's attack on Joyce.

Spike doesn't answer.

A pinched expression appeared on Angel's face, and the twinge behind his eyes signaled the birth of a headache. He exhaled in exasperation. _Why why why, he wonders, Must every day in their cozy little nest be the stage for some new drama? He loves, he needs them, he craves their company. _He should leave now, but they are family. It is blood that binds them.

Angel doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be forced to choose, and he doesn't want to fight his friends. For decades no one disturbed his drunken stupor until Whistler came along with his big mouth and bigger dreams, filling Angel's head full of things that he cannot have.

Damn Whistler, and damn Spike too…

"My toenails are painted plum," Drusilla announced, lifting her bare foot, arched for inspection.

"Very pretty," Angel complimented with an obliging glance at her toes. Spike remains frozen, in game face, locked in some internal battle.

He is surrounded by lunatics.

_Is it somehow his fault?_

"But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie Imagine every eye beholds their blame," Drusilla quoted with smug insolence. The look on his daughter's face makes Angel think that she is to blame for Spike's inane behavior.

_Insanity weaves her lovely web._

Angel transferred his brooding stare to Drusilla who has named his shame aloud. While, technically, he's never raped either Lucrece or Spike, Drusilla was his demon's rapine feast. Certainly, Angelus' past encounters with young William were rough and violent, but they were both willing. At least, so he thought, though Spike's recent stinging rejection has given Angel reason to wonder whether his advances two centuries past were really welcome.

Drusilla stirs his cock the same as Spike. The same as Buffy. For a glimmering second, his demon surfaces, and Angel's eyes darken with hunger. Dru quivers and mewls in delight; then it is gone and she sobs for the loss.

"Buffy waylaid me again," Spike said. Angel looks back, and the blonde is no longer in game face.

"Wanted me to show her a couple tricks. I figured you'd be brassed off," Spike continues in what is clearly a lie. He is desperately trying to conceal the real reason for his reaction to Angel.

It's not that Angel doesn't believe Spike about having gotten into a scrape with Buffy, because the slayer's scent clings to him. Angel inhales a sharp whiff: a heady mix of adrenaline and violence, and the sweet stink of lust. Spike finds Buffy attractive, which really isn't news to Angel.

To his credit, over the course of the last month, Spike has made absolutely no attempt to contact the slayer. (All dates with Joyce aside.) And while Angel doesn't necessarily trust Spike to keep his fly zipped, the Irish vampire implicitly trusts Buffy. Angel's love for her is pure and consuming, a light that fills his heart with the most amazing sense of joy.

"Why would I angry?" Angel asked, deliberately reasonable even though, yeah, a part of him is pissed. Buffy is his girl. Their love is epic. _Spike,_ of all people, cannot come between them.

"Buffy is unrelenting when she decides she wants something," Angel said calmly, adhering to logic as strictly as he can manage.

"Yeah?" Spike looked both cautious and relieved, like he can't quite believe his luck. "Force of nature, that girl is," he agrees tentatively.

"Yeah," Angel agreed, adopting a deliberately soothing tone, as if he's dealing with an unreasonable child, which is pretty much true.

_Don't humor me, Ninny, _Spike's wicked glare says, quite the ballsy feat _considering _how the blonde was just acting.

Another minute of considering silence decides it. They're okay.

Angel feels an indefinable tension easing from his shoulders and neck, which are tightly bunched into knots. The lingering thought that _Spike might leave _hasn't fully left his mind these last few days.

It leaves them with an awkward, so-what's-up reunion.

"Dru's nanny is missing. Found her alone when I got home," Spike finally volunteered. He and Angel trade a paranoid look. The nanny vampire is their guilty concession to Drusilla's need for female companionship, and their admission to the difficulty of caring for her.

If Nanny has killed some innocent person… The possibility weighs upon Angel's conscience the same as Spike, and they indulge a moment of mutual brooding, which causes Drusilla to whine out a protest.

"Sent her to pick me posies, I did," she declared, drawing a sigh of relief from Angel. He deliberately avoids looking at Spike, afraid that the blonde vampire will regurgitate one of the uncomfortable truths that are his talent.

Thankfully, Spike keeps his mouth shut. Who says that the punk vampire is incapable of diplomacy? Usually Angel, but this time even Spike has the sense to realize that the wrong words could cause irreparable damage to their dysfunctional little family.

"What's that?" Spike asks eventually, nodding toward the brown bag in Angel's hand.

"Oban," Angel declared, stripping the paper away from the bottle, holding it up for inspection. He holds it, a peace offering now instead of a celebratory gesture.

"Gonna open it?" Spike asks, expression knowing. They are milling about in the grip of uncertainty, unsure of what their next step should be.

There is still three hours left till sunrise, and Angel's skin is crawling. Claustrophobia. Confinement. The factory feels like a prison with its dark, echoing interior and constant humid stink.

"Yeah. Let's take a drive. Grab your car keys," Angel said, stooping to scoop Drusilla into his arms. She comes willingly, clinging to him with weak fingers. Needy and lovely, this dark child is his…

Spike cocks his head to the side, and fishes his car keys out of the pocket of his duster. He threads a finger through the ring, and holds them up, giving Angel the bird. "Wanna drive?"

_Oh yes, they are both trying hard to make peace._

"Sure," Angel agrees, accepting the keys. He's got a destination in mind.

End Part 11.


	12. Momentous

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 12: Momentous**

**24**

**Drusilla:**_Weeeee!_

Angel drove the DeSoto to a woodland park on the college side of town, a stretch of land between the river and the ocean that served as a wildlife refuge. He knew for a fact that the slayer never patrolled it, and demons mostly leave it alone aside from the occasional werewolf or feral BooBoo.

"Higher!" Drusilla urged, as the wind whipped her ebony hair, and the swing flew skyward. The night flirts with her joyous laughter.

Angel takes a swig of the Oban while the old-fashioned tree swing is out, and passes the bottle to Spike in time to catch Dru on her way in. He applies a gentle push in spite of her urging, because she is already flying so high that there is danger of hitting the tree's branches. She is so fragile, like blown glass, and could be reduced to dust with a powerful blow.

"Careful," Spike muttered, shifting uneasily, and thinking the same thing. The younger vampire accepted the bottle, now three quarters empty, and took his turn sucking down a draught of scotch.

The liquor has Angel in the grip of a powerful buzz, and he is feeling his stones. Alcohol sheds his inhibitions and blunts his legacy of guilt. It puts him in sync with his demon… A dangerous gambit, but a game that he has played for decades: drink just enough to dull the pain, but not so much that he loses control.

He has reached a decision.

"Tell me about the cure you found for Dru," Angel said, once again launching Drusilla toward heaven, hand extended to take the bottle.

He turned just in time to see Spike's eyes widen, lips parting, surprise and then understanding forming in his blue gaze. Spike forgets to hand Angel the bottle, staring at his grand-sire hard as the thoughts tumble through his mind. Of course, he wrestles with the same morale dilemma that has plagued Angel: can they in good conscience restore the health of a cold-blooded killer?

"It almost killed you last time," Spike warns, instead of pontificating on morality or asking how they will control Drusilla once she is healthy. Thankfully, he has the sense to realize that Angel has already considered all of these things, and more. It is a rare day when Angel is about to do something clearly **wrong**, and Spike fails to rub his nose in it.

"But it didn't, did it?" Angel knows just enough about Spike's future alterna-world to think that they might be able to make this work. He just needs to persuade Spike to give up some of the secrets, to which he so desperately clings.

Spike shook his head no, lips pursed, considering. "That was mostly cause Buffy was there to save you. But yeah, if we end the spell fast enough then you live and Dru still gets better…"

Spike is on the verge of a momentous decision, so Angel deliberately remained silent, pushing Drusilla and giving the blonde his space. Angel wishes for the Oban back, but Spike seems to have forgotten about the scotch. So intent is the younger vampire, frozen statue still, staring at the stars as if they might whisper the answers to him the same as they do to Dru.

"We're gonna need to recover the Cross of Du Lac n' to wait till the moon is right, but it should be doable," Spike says, nodding. Apparently, he found his answer.

"Without the Order of Taraka dogging her steps, Buffy might be a problem if she gets wind of it," Spike continued thoughtfully.

Angel scowled. "The Order of Taraka?" he demanded. Just the mention of the powerful assassins guild is enough to send chills down his spine. Abruptly, he is battling the urge to grab Spike and shake him. "What have you done?"

Spike's baby blues widen comically, and he dons that aura of faux innocence. "Calm down, Hair Do. _It's what I did; not what I've done. _Alright?" He shrugs, one shoulder lifting and falling. Spike is doing his damnedest to appear casual even though residual guilt edges his expression.

"So I hired the Order to take out Buffy," Spike admitted in response to Angel's hard and flinty glare. "We were enemies. It'd be years before I got chipped, let alone a soul."

Angel nods sharply, trying hard to overcome his anger. He can't really be pissed with Spike for something that happened in another time, a different reality. _But still… _**The Order of Taraka.**

"You must've been desperate."

Spike returns Angel's look, and for once the blonde's expression is unguarded and honest. "Yeah, was."

Spike takes another swig of the Oban, and offers Angel the bottle. "Sun's coming up soon. Let's head back n' I'll fill you in on the details."

Angel took the bottle, and as it passes between them, their fingers brush. It's not the first time that they've touched in casual passing, and probably won't be the last. Only this time feels significant to Angel as if they're in harmony, having reached an accord.

It's these rare moments when the two of them are working together toward the same goals that Angel feels his anxiety fade. Spike isn't leaving. It was the blonde who sought Angel out, and who also craves this comfortable companionship and the security of family.

Drusilla squeals in delight as Angel catches the rope swing and pulls it to a halt. He tosses the Oban to Spike, and gathers Drusilla into his arms. _Yes, it feels so right._

"Daddy," Drusilla whispers into his ear. She twines serpentine arms about his neck: his daughter's deadly embrace. Spike walks with them back to the car: his son and brother at his side.

Angel is content.

End Part 12.


	13. Another Time, Another Place

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Part 13: Another Time, Another Place**

**May 19th 2004**

**Illyria:**_The half breed is beneath these carcasses._

**Romeo:**_Really? How can you tell?_

**Illyria:** _He emits distinctive sub harmonic vibrations, which resonate with profound sadness, pain, and self-obsession._

**Xander:** _Well, that could be either one of them, but my money's on Angel. Do the emissions feel like he used a lot of mousse?_

**Illyria:**_What is mousse?_

**Xander:** _You're what? Older than time, and you don't know mousse?_

**Illyria:**_I should smash you for your insolence. And yet…I find you curiously attractive. _

**Xander:** _Here we go again… You find me attractive. That's great. You're hot; you're blue, but there are certain ground rules we should go over…_

**Faith:** _Got him!_

Buffy Summers stood amidst a battlefield in downtown LA, one slender hand wrapped around the red handle of Axecaliber, the other posed upon her out thrust hip. The slayer wore a scowl, watching as yet another body came off the pile

The slayers had arrived late on the scene of massive carnage, piles and piles of bodies, including a dead dragon, to find one loan survivor of Team Angel. The blue-carapace, bad-attitude _bitch goddess _claims to be an Old One. (Whatever that might be.) Illyria wove a crazy tale of insane gambits and heroic last stands. According to the blue chick, most of Angel's team died, except - and most importantly, to Buffy anyway – Angel and Spike both survived.

One hitch: they are lost.

Queen Smurf has misplaced them.

Working together, Faith and Illyria heaved aside a demon corpse to reveal Angel's battered figure. The vampire wore more cuts and bruises than clothing, and his entire left shoulder and arm had been severely scorched. The burned flesh was red and black, alternatively raw and charcoaled. Thankfully, he is unconscious.

Buffy exhaled slowly. Angel. Her relief is vast and infinite, but half of what it could be, because her other former vampire paramour is still missing. The slayer's emotions are raw, excruciating, and her only means of coping has been her standard method of crisis management: act now, analyze later.

"He's gonna need blood," Faith said, bending to inspect Angel. "B, you wanna do the honors?" The dark slayer is schmoozing hard, trying not to step on Buffy's toes. It's kinda funny, and darkly twisted. Which of them wants dibs on Angel getting bitey? Buffy has to give Faith credit even though she is distinctly bitter.

"No, you go ahead," Buffy muttered, turning away. Her one true love has been found; the other is still missing. Faith will be more than happy to bleed for Angel as a grand gesture of contrition and penitence. Buffy isn't going to stop until she's found Spike.

And okay – totally honest aside - Buffy is way more freaked over Faith playing Nurse Nightingale to Angel than she's letting on. However, her own boyfriend is standing right there, watching, and Spike is still MIA.

Romeo peers down at Angel with obvious curiosity, taking the vampire's measure. "So, this is the infamous Angelus," he drawls in that so-sexy Italian accent of his.

Buffy winced. "He goes by Angel, Romeo." They were on their way to a UN meeting in New York with when word had reached her that all hell had broken loose in LA. Buffy had dropped everything and jumped on the first Wiccan teleport out. The Immortal had insisted upon tagging along, and she was in too much of a hurry to argue. Not that he was rude or overbearing about accompanying her, because everything that Romeo does is perfect.

Too perfect.

Her hot, sexy, wealthy, perfectly obnoxious boyfriend.

If Buffy is cookie dough, then Romeo is cotton candy. (Or maybe that's caviar.) Either way, he's delicious in small quantities, but overdosing has made her nauseous.

"Ahhh, of course," Romeo agrees, distant and yet condescending.

Right now they are so damn lucky that Angel is unconscious.

Buffy is dressed to kill, figuratively instead of literally. She has on a pale yellow ostrich leather sandal shoes by Forzieri, and an off-shoulder Valentino cocktail dress of pale gold silk. The dress has a train of gauze, and a baby doll short skirt. Her jewelry is a matching set of yellow diamonds: teardrop earrings and pendant. Her hair is longer than it was in Sunnydale, and she'd allowed herself the put on a few pounds. She is sleek ad healthy, perfectly composed and manicured, and until a few hours ago she'd been content if not happy.

There was no time to change, and no opportunity to deal with the crippling emotional shock of discovering that not only Angel, but _Spike… Spike. Spike who she'd believed to be dead of the final fireball variety of death was actually alive. _

And then Andrew had told her that that the pair of them were had taken on some mega nasty demons, and might very well already be dust.

Spike, alive and then dead again, returned to her and taken away in one breath… And lower than that is the weirdness of Spike n' Angel battling evil _together. _Team-like. Batman and Robin, which is totally wrong and unfair, because Spike is _her_ sidekick, not Angel's.

Buffy has dibs.

**Men. **What were they thinking? Doing this without her? Buffy is The Slayer. It's her calling to battle the Big Bads, and here she's got Faith and a hundred little helpers, Gung Ho Mini Slayers, all of them just rarin' to go. So what do Spike n' Angel do? Go it alone…

It's her lack of connectedness. It's gotta be. Buffy bonds with men, and then first chance they get…they're gone. She heaves a sigh, once again acknowledging her uncanny talent for picking the impossible ones. She has deadly accuracy.

With Spike she thought it was different, at least for about thirty seconds before he combusted into a great fiery maelstrom. Here was a guy willing to win a soul and sacrifice himself to save the world, and all to impress a girl. _To impress her._

She'd thought: _maybe we have something here_, _maybe there's something to us after all_. They'd worked hard to get there, right? They'd overcome so many obstacles from his attempted rape to her post-resurrection abusiveness.

They'd connected; they'd bonded. **They were friends.** So there at the end Buffy had taken a chance, and said the words, finally accepting him into her heart. Right before he uttered those infamous last words, _No, you don't. But thanks for saying it._

She has many regrets but one of the most profound is that there wasn't time to hit the big bleached idiot for daring to throw that back in her face. She'd never lied to him. Never misled him. Not in the entire time they were together. The words were real as were her feelings.

Faith and Illyria have lifted Angel free, and are carrying him toward the base camp the slayers have established. Xander brushed past Buffy, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He whispered into her ear. "Don't worry, Buffy. We're gonna find Bleach Boy."

A smile lifted Buffy's lips, and heart as well. "Thanks, Xan." She shared a quick hug with her Piratey-shaped friend, grateful that he is there, and then they separated. Xander followed along after Faith, Angel, and Illyria: taking a keen interest in the Blue One's behind.

The Immortal's mouth is open, and his lips are moving again. Before he could speak, Buffy interrupted. "Romeo, would you be a dear and check in with London for me? Find out how much longer Giles is going to be?"

Romeo's eyes narrow and his lips compress. The Immortal does not like being assigned busy work or errands. However, his real reaction lasts only a split second. Then he smiled graciously and kisses her cheek. "Of course, amore, I would be delighted to do that for you."

Then he too is gone, and Buffy heaves a sigh of relief.

"Hey Buffy, look what I caught!" Willow called out, causing the slayer to glance over her shoulder toward her friend's voice.

Willow marches a plump woman who has gray hair piled in a beehive and apple red cheeks before her. The captive looks like someone's matronly auntie, and Buffy looks askance at her friend.

"Vengeance demon," Willow explained succinctly, holding an amulet, which must be the woman's power source. "Caught her lurking over there. I took this from her."

"I'm a Wish Fairy, thank you very much," the woman responded primly. "And I was not lurking, I was observing. My name is Glindagelbryht._ I _am agent for the Powers That Be, sent on a mission of mercy to dispense a final wish to a dying champion."

"Spike is to smart to fall for your trickery," Buffy said, staring at the Vengeance Demon with cold, hard eyes. An opportunistic evil by any other name… (Truthfully, she is worried in spite of her declaration of confidence in Spike. In some matters, he is uncannily astute and as smart as a whip. But in others, he is an idiot.)

Glinda-what'sherface laughed, her features drawing into a pinched expression of glee. True colors: revealed.

"Oh but you're wrong! His legs were severed – he was bleeding out – moments from final death. It's pathetic how easily fooled a man is when he thinks it's all over! I fed him a line of bullshit about champions and just rewards, and he just ate it up!"

Willow's kind expression has changed, matching Buffy's for coldness. White-Wiccan-Goddess she might be, but the red head is also one of the scariest women alive or dead in the world. _And Buffy is the other._

"What did he wish for?" Buffy demanded. It hurts to ask, because she has a strong suspicion, which is immediately confirmed.

"You," Glinda sneered, and then laughs so that her entire plump body jiggles. "He wished for you: for a second chance. Isn't that _sweet_?"

Buffy's thin lips drew together, and her hand tightened on the handle of her axe. "Problem easily solved," she said, reaching for the amulet, which Willow is extending toward her.

"Smashing my amulet will not undo what's been done! I've sent him to another time, another place, and GOOD LUCK trying to find him!" Glinda screeched.

The words aren't even out of the Vengeance Demon's mouth before the deadly swift blade of Axecaliber slices her head clean off her neck.

Scowling, Buffy stared at Willow who gazed back with eyes round with compassion and pity. "We'll find him, Buffy. That's a promise," Willow says softly.

More easily said than done.

A great power solidifies within Buffy, her will manifesting in the form of determination. Buffy has accomplished impossible feats, overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds. What's one little MIA Spike?

"Right, let's get cracking!" Buffy agreed, adopting an upbeat mode, chipper and dogged, smiling past clenched teeth. She is resolved, and they have work to do.

There are infinite realities to sort.

This might take some time.

End Part 13.


	14. Then and Now

**Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike**

**October 31st, 1997**

**Epilogue: Then and Now**

**Then: 24 hours before:**

**Angel:** _How long have we been stuck like this?_

**Spike:** _A while._

The direct application of his entire upper body strength against two thousand pounds of shelving lifted it no more than six inches. Angel bench pressed the massive structure for several straining seconds before he was forced to lower it once again. An explosive grunt escaped the vampire as the crushing weight settled atop his chest once more.

"Are you gonna help me with this?" Angel demanded, cross and abrupt. It's the first time that he's actually requested Spike's assistance in spite of the fact that the predicament is mutual.

"You're right," Spike said quietly.

They are speaking across one another, but those words coming from Spike's mouth are so startling and strange that Angel becomes distracted.

"I'm right about what?"

"That I'm fucked," Spike explained. "Here I've done nothing but hide out in this factory cause I'm too worried about the possibility of bollixing everything up to be living my life."

"You haven't done nothing," Angel countered. "You joined a band. And that book club." He isn't sure why he's defending Spike _to Spike_, but the blonde seems so glum. _And damn it, Spike was nice to him._

"Shut up," Spike snapped. "What I'm sayin' 'bout you being right is that I've been sittin' around on my arse, waiting for someone from my time n' my place to rescue me. Time to face up to facts: it isn't gonna happen."

"What're you gonna do?" Angel asked, suddenly still and cautious.

"Guess it's time to start living my life," Spike said, thoughtful, nodding slowly. "This is the hand I've been dealt. Might as well make the best of it."

"Great," Angel said. "You've had an epiphany."

Silence.

"Will you help me get this thing off of us now?"

"Sure thing, Peaches, all you needed to do was ask." Spike grins, and Angel grinds his teeth in exasperation.

Together, they pool their formidable strengths and lift the imprisoning structure free. Together they accomplish what neither could alone. There's a lesson there, plain and simple, but Angel isn't sure he's ready to own it just yet.

**Now: 24 hours later:**

**Angel:** _So did you accomplish anything today?_

**Spike:** _Huh?_

**Angel:** _You know, your resolution to start living life. Did you do it?_

**Spike:** _HA! Nah, forgot. I'll do that tomorrow._

**Angel:** _Get the door for me? Dru's asleep; don't want to jostle her._

**Spike:** _Sure. There you go. So, what're we reading tonight?_

**Angel:** _Dunno. Thought maybe some Dickens. _

**Spike:**_ Great Expectations?_

**Angel:**_ Sure, that sounds good._

**End Story.**

**Series TBC**


End file.
